


every blessing ignored becomes a curse

by theghostofjamespotter



Series: world cup of coochby [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Canon Compliant, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Pittsburgh Penguins, San Jose Sharks, Team Canada, World Cup of Hockey, boning at the world cup 2k16
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-01
Updated: 2016-10-01
Packaged: 2018-08-18 19:17:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8172902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theghostofjamespotter/pseuds/theghostofjamespotter
Summary: “Team Canada, brah!”
 He hands the phone back to Logan, who slowly wets his mouth with his tongue, swallowing against the sudden dryness of his throat. “You're gonna have to help me pack,” he tells Tommy, swiping over the screen to answer the call. “Fuck. You're gonna have to apologize to Sidney Crosby.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> i? don't have any excuses.
> 
> this is entirely a present for austin, who i love with my whole entire heart.
> 
> we're ignoring the one prelim game that sid didn't play in because this tournament is too short for me to waste a day of these idiots not being on the ice together. okay? good.
> 
> also here's some [world](https://twitter.com/spalings/status/777313113930694657) [cup](https://twitter.com/spalings/status/778399472707600384) of [coochby](https://twitter.com/spalings/status/778789564735483905) proof.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Dude. Jamie Benn's not playing in the World Cup.”

Logan steps out onto the patio, still pulling from a can of Bud Light, and it takes him a second to register what Tommy just said.

 “Wait. What?”

Tommy shoves his phone into Logan's face. “Benn's not playing, brah. Where's your phone, you need to keep your phone on-”

“Bud. I'm like one of six guys they told to be ready. One of them'll go first.”

He plucks Tommy's phone from his hand and scrolls through the news story. It isn't anything he doesn't already know. Jamie had an off season surgery and wants to prioritize being ready for the Stars season. Team Canada was already well aware of the situation, having called Logan weeks ago to make sure he stayed ready, just in case.

But Logan isn't stupid. Team Canada has, at minimum, four rosters worth of forwards that could do just as much damage as he's capable of. There's no reason to call him first.

Except his phone starts ringing.

Tommy rips it from Logan's back pocket, eyes wide and mouth slack.

“Team Canada, brah!”

He hands the phone back to Logan, who slowly wets his mouth with his tongue, swallowing against the sudden dryness of his throat.

“You're gonna have to help me pack,” he tells Tommy, swiping over the screen to answer the call.

“Fuck. You're gonna have to apologize to Sidney Crosby.”

 

*******

 

He runs into Sid on the elevator.

He's only just arrived at the hotel, bags and suits slung over his shoulder, suitcase dragging heavy behind him, and he manages to smash his hand against the elevator button with hardly a second to spare before it closes. Logan breathes a sigh of relief, a small favor not to have to wait for another lift – or worse, tackle the stairs, but it's short-lived. The elevator doors part and Sidney Crosby is standing in front of him, looking vaguely irked at the interruption.

He looks at Sid and he hates that his first thought is _this is the guy who lost me the cup_.

“I-I can, like, wait...for the next one,” Logan stammers.

Sid's response is flat. “Get in the elevator.”

“It's fine.” Logan shakes his head. “I can just -”

The door starts to close again and Sid slaps his hand against the door frame, holding it open.

“I said get in the elevator.”

Logan wheels his suitcase into the small space, catching it twice on the gap between the frame and door. Sid looks like if it were anyone else but Logan, he'd be laughing, but given the present company, he's refraining. Which...Logan can't really blame him for. The doors close, Sid taps the floor number, and doesn't make further eye contact.

He can feel Sid breathe, deep and steady next to him. He takes three full breaths before Logan speaks.

“Look, can I just -”

“No.”

Logan blinks. “No?”

“No. We're not having this conversation.”

Sid still doesn't look at him, but the tension in his jaw makes it pretty clear that if Logan presses the issue any further, he'll enlist Weber to run him in the boards repeatedly, best case scenario. Worst case, he'll just sock him in the face right here.

The door dings and Sid sidesteps in front of Logan's luggage, exiting first.

“Welcome to Team Canada,” he calls out, only barely tipping his head over his shoulder.

 

*******

 

It would be one thing if he could avoid Sid.

They aren't put on lines together – not that Logan had any preconceptions about that because Sid has a pretty permanent spot on Team Canada's top line and no way first-timer Logan Couture is gonna come in a swoop up a spot next to him, but it makes things easier, at least. He doesn't have to worry about passing to Sid, much less speaking to him. So practices run smoothly and he sticks around with Toews and Burnzie and Stammer, and even though Sid is this looming presence he can't rid himself of, Logan can still play hockey this way and that's all that matters.

But off the ice, Sid is everywhere Logan is.

He runs into Sid in the elevator twice more. Nearly knocks him on his ass opening his hotel room door one afternoon. Collides with him on his way to the showers after practice.

Sid never says anything to him, which kind of just makes things worse.

 

*******

 

“I swear to god, I'm fucking cursed.”

Tommy laughs on the other end of the receiver. “Maybe there's a Greek god of hockey you pissed off or something.”

“Or maybe Sid is doing on purpose. Trying to make me look bad, so I'll get scratched.”

“Dude, shut up. You said practices are going fine.”

It's not untrue. Logan is clicking with Toews. He's a weird, quiet dude, but he's precise in how he directs guys on the ice and it's easy for Logan to play good hockey with him. They haven't been split up yet, but that doesn't mean they won't be. There's still time before the tournament starts for real.

“Just chill,” Tommy yawns. “It's probably just bad timing.”

 

*******

 

Except that the day of their first prelim game, he doesn't run into Sid at all.

It doesn't quite hit him until he's at the rink and hefting his pads over his shoulders that he went nearly an entire day without Sid interrupting him somehow.

He breathes a sigh of relief.

He plays hockey.

 

*******

 

They lose.

 

*******

 

It's ugly.

Logan goes head first into the boards and gets pulled out for awhile, only to go back in and have Palmieri punch at his head until his helmet flies off. He's nothing compared to what they do to Sid, who seems to be their primary target. Team USA is playing dirty, angry hockey and it leaves everyone feeling achy, empty, and exhausted.

They were the favorites to win.

 

*******

 

The next morning, Logan wakes up late with his ears ringing. He shimmies into a pairs of sweats, slides into some sandals, and heads to team breakfast half asleep.

Sid is waiting at the elevator doors.

He looks Logan over, more than he's looked at him in the last week combined, and asks sincerely, “How's your head?”

Logan works his tongue around in his mouth. “Fuzzy. But okay. I think.”

Sid nods. “Good. That's good.”

 

*******

 

That night, Logan scores first.

He skates past the bench and he thinks he sees Sid smile.

 

*******

 

They win.

 

*******

 

The next four days are the same. He runs into Sid unintentionally at least once a day, but now Sid will sometimes say something to him. He'll nod his head, gesture with his hand,  _oh no you first,_ to let Logan onto the elevator, pass him the cream and sugar for his coffee down the table at breakfast.

They aren't friends. Not by any stretch of the imagination.

It starts feeling less like a curse, at least. Logan'll take it.

 

*******

 

When they play Russia, Sid gets the first assist. He comes back to the bench and Logan isn't next on the ice, so there's Sid, sweaty and smiley, and he plops down next to Logan. Leaning into him, shoulder to shoulder, Sid pulls one corner of his lip taut.

“I think you're lucky,” he yells over the white noise of the rink.

“You...what?”

Sid squirts a water bottle in the direction of his mouth, but much of it trails over his chin, dripping down his neck and into his sweater.

“I think you're lucky, rookie,” he repeats, eyes still on center ice. “Watch your guy.”

 

*******

 

Sid, it turns out, is superstitious.

Most hockey players are, to varying extents.

There's the playoff beards, a one on a ten point scale of hockey superstitions. Not stepping on the logo in the dressing room is about a three, though on the Bruins, it's apparently an eight. Then there's pregame rituals, a four through six, depending on the guy and the complexity of the ritual.

Everything about Sid is a solid twelve.

 

*******

 

The next morning, Logan wakes up for breakfast on time. He showers, even though he showered after the game, getting the stale hotel feeling off of him under the scalding tap. He feels new, raw – at ease in a way he can't explain.

It shouldn't surprise him as much as it does when Sid is waiting outside his door.

“I think you're our lucky charm,” he says without preamble.

Logan laughs.

“Okay,” Sid corrects. “ _My_ lucky charm. Specifically.”

Logan tugs his door shut behind him without turning around, pulls until it clicks shut. He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his sweats.

“I'm an emergency call up that you don't share ice time with. I'm not making you any better.”

Sid starts toward the elevator and they're going to the same place, so Logan has no real choice but to follow him. “You slipped into my off-ice routine, rook.”

“You're joking.” This is some bullshit Team Canada prank. He'll dig into Burnzie or Jumbo or Pickles later and one of them will spill exactly what shit Sid is trying to pull.

“Nope.” Sid presses the elevator button then turns to face Logan while they wait. “Looks like you're my new best friend.”

“Seriously?”

“Don't make me pull the Captain card.”

The elevator dings, Logan sighs, and Sid smiles like he's just won the World Cup.

 

*******

 

In the morning, Sid meets him at his door. They go to practice together. They shower afterward. Sid drops Logan back off at his room until dinner. He picks him up and they eat dinner. Sid leaves him at his room again with a stilted “Goodnight” and Logan isn't sure what he feels when the door closes between them.

 _Two more weeks_ , he tells himself.

_Two more weeks._

 

*******

 

The next day passes the same. And the next.

On Saturday, they beat the Czech Republic six to nothing.

 

*******

 

Logan takes to watching Sid. The first thing he learns is to not bother with subtlety – Sid isn't stupid, and more than that, he's observant. Logan has played with guys like him, guys who are always three steps ahead of being three steps ahead and it carries off ice. Sid knows Logan is watching him, but either he doesn't care or he knows that there's little else for Logan to do with him glued to his side.

They play hockey. And Logan watches.

 

*******

 

The night before they're set to face off against Team USA again – a game that could force the Americans out of the tournament – they ride up the elevator together after dinner and Sid is restless. Logan has picked up on his fidgeting, the way he bounces up onto his toes twice before falling back onto his heel when he doesn't want to sit still. He can't make eye contact when he wants to initiate conversation and right now he hasn't looked at Logan since they got back to the hotel.

But Logan has also learned to not rush Sid. He waits.

Sid passes by Logan's door, keeps walking while Logan fishes his keycard from his wallet.

“You should come to my room,” Sid says, a full two doors down from him.

Logan doesn't answer immediately.

“Please,” Sid offers, voice flat.

“Yeah. Okay.”

 

*******

 

They watch a movie and Sid lets Logan pick. He chooses _Gone Girl_ after Sid admits he's never seen it or read the book. He's smart, though, figuring out the ending long before Logan ever did the first time he read it.

Sid only has one bed in his room, but it's big and they maintain a safe, friendly level of distance between them. They joke with each other.

It's weird. It might always be weird.

But Logan is enjoying himself.

And when the night winds down, when Sid asks him to stay, when he scrunches his face and explains – “It's just a big game tomorrow” – Logan finds himself wanting to stay, which is unexpected.

So he stays and he thinks Sid is happy about that.

 

*******

 

It's not the best game. Team USA scores first and that's always a hard blow to take.

Every time Logan is on the bench, there Sid is, sat on his left, thighs pressed together through six layers of fabric. He practically shoves Tazer out of the way to get to Logan once and Tazer looks back at Logan, eyebrow cocked, but he doesn't say a word, which is probably for the best.

Sid is missing from the scoresheet and Logan only tallies an assist, but they knock out the US.

 

*******

 

They don't talk about it, but they end up in Sid's room.

They don't talk about it, but Sid kisses Logan before the door hits the frame.

They don't talk about it, but Logan whines in nonsense phrases, a universal language of lust, and Sid obliges.

 

*******

 

The next night, Sid opens scoring against Europe.

Logan gets a goal and an assist.

 

*******

 

“Maybe you've got a point,” Logan says that night, half into Sid's mouth. “I might be your lucky charm.”

Sid pauses, but before Logan can question him, his lips are back on Logan's and he forgets.

 

*******

 

Together, they win. They win and they win and they win.

 

*******

 

The room is too warm. Sid is glued to his side with sweat but neither of them make a move to pull apart or cool down their naked skin.

“I know why you said what you said,” Sid tells him, fingers laced together, held up between them.

“Why I said what?” Logan's mouth brushes lazily over Sid's neck and he can feel the goosebumps crawl over him underneath his lips.

“That I cheat.”

He says it simply, the way he does most things. Facts don't rattle Sid, but this shakes something in Logan, and he pulls his fingers from Sid's on reflex.

“It was smart,” Sid says. “Protecting your team from the media like that.”

He wraps his arm around Logan's shoulder, pulls him into his side and kisses into his hair.

“I would've done the same, y'know.”

“I might not have forgiven you,” Logan says honestly.

Sid nods. “Yeah, I figured.”

 

*******

 

It's not like the tournament is going to last forever.

If they keep winning, they have six days left.

So they win against Russia and steal a few more.

 

*******

 

“You need to watch your shot blocking.”

Sid presses a finger into Logan's ribs, a blue-black bruise still new and tender under his touch.

“Last I checked, shot blocking was a good thing.” He pulls his shirt back down over his stomach, curls into Sid's chest. “But if you want to start taking a few, take the load off, be my guest.”

Sid snorts. “I'm just saying. You almost ended up concussed and now you're gonna end up breaking a rib or a foot or something. You really think I don't know your injury history?”

“I'll be fine,” Logan reassures Sid, before teasing: “Besides, you don't want me too healthy for the regular season, right?”

A moment passes.

“Yeah,” Sid says, like he never really thought about the regular season. “Of course.”

 

*******

 

The problem is that they can't lose.

The problem is that a sweep means the tournament ends sooner.

The problem is that a sweep means this is all over.

 

*******

 

Logan leaves Sid's early the morning before game two against Europe.

He thinks he should want to win, that it’s unnatural of him to hope to lose. Pricey deserves it more than any of them, his streak both terrifying and wonderful.

He's being selfish, but he wonders if there's anything Price would give up his winning streak for. Logan doesn’t wonder if he’d do the same.

Sid is still asleep in his room when Logan goes to breakfast on his own.

 

*******

 

“You fucked up,” Tazer tells him as soon as he sits down. “You fucked Sid's routine. You don't do that, rookie.”

“Sid will be fine,” Logan says, knowing it's a goddamn lie.

 

*******

 

They play like garbage.

 

*******

 

Second intermission, down by one and goalless, Tazer drags Logan out of earshot of the others and point blank tells him: “Sort your fucking shit.”

Crosby finds him next and he's in competition mode –  he's full on game seven and that's the Sid Logan came into this tournament expecting. That's the Sid from June who was only ever his opponent, the Sid who slashed at Claude Giroux's wrists until they broke, the Sid who takes this game so seriously that losing a single game in a tournament that means nothing is absolutely killing him.

That Sid was never supposed to kiss him in a hotel room in Toronto.

Every piece of their story was stolen.

They don’t get to steal this from their team, too.

“Can you blame me,” he asks Sid, “for just wanting two more days?”

Sid pulls him in close, where only Logan can hear him when he speaks. He whispers, “No.”

 

*******

 

From across a face-off circle, Sidney Crosby looks at Logan Couture and thinks _this kid is gonna win me a cup._

 

*******

 

In a way, he wins him two.

 

**Author's Note:**

> [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/mattsdumba)


End file.
